Beauty and the Beast
by SnapeSeraphin
Summary: Lucius Malfoy is sentenced to an unusual punishment by Dumbledore. Hermione Granger has left the wizarding world after her parents' tragic death. Fate takes its course. LMHG. AU.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: ** no copyright infringement intended. No profit being made.

**AN**: I apologize to those of you who thought this was an update to To Save a Malfoy. Despite the fact that I know (more or less) what is still to happen, I can't seem to find the inspiration to write down what happens precisely. I however haven't given up on the idea that I might finish it one day, but maybe that's just me being stubborn.

In the meantime, a story from a German writer I like a lot and who has graciously given me permission to translate her stories, so that they may be available to a larger audience. I hope you'll be able to enjoy this story as much as I have.

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**Beauty and the beast**

A Story by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation from German to English by _SnapeSeraphin_

The fight against Voldemort was in its final stage and the all-deciding battle raged on Hogwarts' grounds. At this point, it was still unclear which side would govern the future happenings in the wizarding world. Bitter and merciless Aurors and Death Eaters fought each other; the air was filled with the loud cries of curses and consequent countercurses. The cries of those that were hit were audible loud and clear on the battlefield. Magically enhanced, and thus incredibly loud, orders were given, instructing both sides to take care of security breaches on their side and to discover their enemies'. The ground was soaked in the blood of those who had fallen and there was hardly anyone fighting who hadn't been hurt in one way or another.

From the background, in the cover of a group of trees, the Dark Lord oversaw the battle with glittering red eyes. For now he was staying back, watching the battle in its entirety. That's how he planned to determine the precise moment where it became imperative for him to take action himself. He didn't want to do this too early; for now it was enough to let his Death Eaters fight for him. That one row of his followers had already fallen, didn't bother him overmuch. It was called necessary sacrifice, collateral damage. He didn't expect any different from them than that they were willing to sacrifice their lives for him.

A seed of discontent started to grow within him, though. At the moment the fight wasn't going the way he wanted it to go. Dismayed, he watched as his Death Eaters lost more and more ground; they limited themselves to deflecting curses aimed at them, instead of doling them out.

"My Lord, we have to do something." Lucius Malfoy, the only one to remain at his side and acting as messenger between Voldemort and his forces, was getting slightly nervous. He too, saw that their side was suffering heavy losses, which seemed to weigh heavier every minute.

"Yes, yes…I know. But the time isn't right yet. Potter is the key, Lucius. At the moment he is still protected by his people, we have to take different measures." Voldemort appeared to be thinking for a moment. His sharp eyes took in the scene before them and came to rest on a young female, who had just taken over the task of covering Harry Potter's back. Tall and proud she stood behind the boy with the scar. Indefatigably she deflected curse after curse, giving Potter the opportunity to take his own decisive action in the battle. The boy was very efficient; almost every single curse that fell from his lips hit its intended target.

"Isn't that the Mudblood, his best friend?" Voldemort gestured with his wand in the direction of the young female. Lucius squinted and after a couple of moments, nodded. "Yes, that's Hermione Granger. She's very good at what she does," he commented, his words inadvertently showing honest admiration of her skills.

"Extraordinary for a Mudblood, certainly. But without a doubt there is something that would move her to cease her defence of Potter," pondered the Dark Lord, watching disdainfully as Hermione Granger, with apparent ease, countered an attack of several masked Death Eaters and, after incapacitating two of them, erected an impressive magical shield around both herself and the still fighting Potter boy, her mouth quirking into an easy grin.

"Tell Rodolphus to leave immediately and bring me her parents. I don't care how he manages it, as long as they're here within the hour, alive."

"I could go and get them," Lucius offered.

"No, you will stay near me. Lestrange will take care of it."

Lucius turned around, scanning the surrounding area and had soon found the person he was looking for, even in the heat of battle. He approached him and told him of Voldemort's orders. Turning back, easily dispatching two attacking Aurors on the way, he returned to his Lord's side.

Not thirty minutes had gone by before Lestrange reappeared. Accompanying him were two people whose hands were magically bound. The man was already bleeding from several wounds and the woman, brutally shoved forward every once in a while by her captor, had a large bruise covering a large part of her face. Softly whimpering and trembling with fear, the couple stood in front of the fear-inducing figure of the Dark Lord.

"Please…we have done nothing to you," begged David Granger as he raised his bound hands. His eyes moved continually, widening in fear as he realised where they must be.

"YOU may not have done anything, but your daughter did all the more," hissed Voldemort and looked at the two Muggles with displeasure.

"Our daughter..? Sir, our daughter is a good girl," pleaded Granger, even as his eyes were trying to make out Hermione in the midst of the surrounding battle.

"She impedes our victory, Granger. And I do not abide by it." A gesture from the Dark Lord and Lestrange pushed the two captives forward, in the direction of the battlefield, taking care to use their bodies as a shield between him and possible hexes coming his way at all times. A couple of rather benign hexes actually hit the couple by accident, making them cry out and stumble. At this, warriors of both side of the conflict became aware of the unusual spectacle. Wands were lowered temporarily and the hiss of uttered curses lessened.

"I presume, Mudblood that you recognise the two Muggles that are in my power?" Voldemort's magically enhanced voice shattered the relative quiet. Hermione was looking around in confusion, a desperate 'no' falling from her lips when she saw what he meant.

"Lower your wand and step back. You will stop helping Potter. If you don't comply with my orders, the both of them will die." Voldemort didn't even consider the possibility of her refusing to honour his wishes. Hermione hesitated, prevaricating between the need to protect Harry during his fight and doing whatever was necessary to keep her parents alive.

Meanwhile, a couple of those among the Death Eaters' ranks took their chance to attack the distracted Aurors and all of a sudden a succession of curses was fired at the ranks of the defenders. A counterattack was of course inevitable and the battle was taken up with renewed vigour. In the middle of it all, there were two scared and wounded Muggles, who had fallen to their knees and had folded their arms around their heads, as if that would help keep them from further harm.

Hermione was looking from Harry to her parents and back with horror. She needed to do something, but only Harry's gasped 'Go on, save them!' galvanised her into action. Determined, she raised her wand and started moving.

It was too late. Afterwards, no-one of the survivors would be able to tell who had uttered the curse that had killed Hermione's parents and Rodolphus Lestrange who was still standing next to them. Before Hermione was even in the vicinity of her parents however, their bodies, surrounded in green light were already falling onto the blood-soaked ground. Lestrange's body fell on top of theirs.

"Noooo!" Hermione threw herself forward, tears streaming down her face. It was too late. The people that had raised and loved her were dead. Irrevocably.

She dropped her wand, not caring what was happening around her. Despite the fact that she made an easy and defenceless target, all curses that were fired in her direction, failed to hit their target; a dark figure in the background made sure that Hermione didn't suffer the same fate as her parents. The girl, meanwhile, pulled the body of the Death Eater off of those of her parents, then sank down next to them, crying and mourning. Tenderly she brushed her mother's hair from her forehead, again and again, she held her father's lifeless hand in hers, shaking her head in disbelief. She just couldn't comprehend what was happening to her at the moment. It was a nightmare from which she couldn't wake.

The battle around her never lost its intensity. She didn't care. She was caught up too deeply in the loss of her parents. She didn't see that Harry Potter fulfilled the prophecy at long last and killed Voldemort. She didn't realise that with the death of the Dark Lord, the battle ended. She didn't care that the remaining Death Eaters were captured and removed from the scene. Even the somewhat clumsy attempts of her friends to comfort her seemed to bounce off of her without being registered.

Days later, after her parents were buried together with all the other victims of the battle and her hurt started to transform into cold anger against herself, the wizarding world, her friends who hadn't prevented her parents death and Dumbledore whose comfort she found more troublesome than anything else, a decision was taking shape inside of her.

After everybody had left the cemetery and nobody had managed to convince her to leave with them, she remained alone in front of the grave which was decorated with numerous flowers.

Numbly, Hermione stared at her parents' final resting place. The wind pulled on her hair and clothes, but she hardly noticed. Her eyes were burning, but she couldn't cry anymore because there were no more tears left. She put her hand into her pocket and decisively pulled out her wand. She took it in both of her hands and without further ado broke it into two pieces. The now useless wood was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

"I don't need it anymore. Not even magic could help you, could ensure your survival. Magic let you die…I don't want to be a witch anymore. No more magic, EVER AGAIN!"

With those words, she turned around and left the cemetery. Nobody saw her since, or knew where she had gone. Hermione Granger had quietly left the wizarding world forever.

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**AN**: Both the original author and myself would love to hear your thoughts on this story, as well as whether or not you'd like for me to continue the translation. In short: please review!


	2. The verdict

**Beauty and the beast**, a story by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 1: The Verdict

Life in the wizarding world moved on, even without Hermione's presence. The final battle had been won, the war was finally over and the Dark Lord was dead.

After taking care of the numerous casualties, burying them during a large and meaningful ceremony, after looking after an ocean of wounded, there was nothing left to do but to try and sentence the last remaining, surviving Death Eaters.

Albus Dumbledore, once again the most powerful wizard in the world, held a trial, which would go down in the annals of wizarding history because of the unusual and rarely imposed verdict he would pass on one of the defendants.

During this trial, Dumbledore sentenced the captured Death Eaters, little though there were. Some of them were repentant as they stood before their judge and begged for mercy. A few others had the audacity to boast about the atrocities they committed. Others insisted their participation during torture and interrogation sessions had been minimal, that they had been relatively harmless tag-alongs. But Dumbledore wasn't easily fooled. The evidence against every single one of the Death Eaters on trial was impressive and Dumbledore's sentencing was stern, but fair. Azkaban was going to get rather a lot of new inmates in the immediate future; with few exceptions, the verdict was life, with no chance of parole.

Last to stand trial was a tall, finely-dressed man. Standing tall, jaw arrogantly set, long blond hair carefully brushed back over his broad shoulders, he looked his judge in the face emotionlessly. Lucius Malfoy was proudly showing himself as the right-hand man of the evil wizard Voldemort.

A chorus of whispers went through the chamber, a lot of those present shaking their heads disbelievingly in the face of such arrogance. This man had, despite all the terrible deeds he committed and needed to defend himself on, an incredible amount of inappropriate pride in him. The only question was, what exactly he was so proud of.

Insolent as he had ever been, he looked at the face of his former Professor. He would never whimper for mercy as his former associates had done. A Malfoy faced the consequences of his actions, whether they'd been right or wrong.

"Lucius Malfoy, do you confess you have murdered, tortured, lied and swindled in the name of Voldemort?" asked Dumbledore.

Clearly, Malfoy responded: "Yes, I confess that I have been a loyal follower of the Dark Lord and on his orders I have done all of which I stand accused."

"Do you regret your heinous deeds?"

"No. The Dark Lord promised me money, power and better standing. I wanted all of this."

This unabashed statement caused a wave of murmurs among the witches and wizards present at the trial. Malfoy didn't appear the least bit sorry, disquieting the audience.

Harry Potter, the hero who had vanquished the Dark Lord frowned and whispered to his neighbour: "At least he's being honest about it, the bastard." Neville nodded and stretched his neck a little more so that he wouldn't miss anything.

Dumbledore read a stunning lack of sensitivity in the silver eyes of his onetime student and decided after some deliberation to pass a very unusual verdict.

There had been only one other case, in which a witch had been forced to utter this particular curse and that had been more than two-hundred-and-fifty years ago. The wizened wizard, however, realised that it was the only possible recourse he had to really punish the vain, arrogant, cruel, egotistical Lucius Malfoy; Azkaban was not an option for Voldemort's most loyal follower.

"Lucius Malfoy, I curse you. I condemn you to live your life in a truly horrible form and I'll strip you of all your magic powers. In future, you will be nothing more, than that which you have hated and fought against for so long: a Muggle. You are banned from the magical world and you will never be allowed to return to it."

A horribly loud rushing sound shattered the silence that had descended when the verdict was pronounced: Lucius Malfoy's wand, which a bailiff had handed to Dumbledore, was dramatically broken in two.

A loud and desperate 'No!' accompanied the unknown sound.

Malfoy's tall and proud body appeared to be swaying and he looked at the white-haired wizard with trepidation. He had anticipated everything but this particular curse, which was so different from the sentence of his cohorts. He felt as if he had lost his footing; the terrible realisation of what was about to happen to him seeping into his brain. His hands were heedlessly reaching for something to hold onto and, not finding anything, he sank down to his knees.

"Dumbledore, you can't do this. Send me to Azkaban, like the others. Not this!" he moaned discomposedly. There was nothing left of his arrogant, cold voice. So he was begging for mercy after all.

But it was too late.

Dumbledore looked down at the blond wizard without compassion and raised his wand. A yellow-green flare left his wand and flew at Malfoy with a hissing sound. For a moment, the kneeling man was surrounded by a wavering, poisonous green aura, Malfoy crying out in torment and pain. He crumbled into a ball and all his limbs started to jerk. Then he began to change in an eerie and painful way. Malfoy's beautiful long blond hair changed first; it turned grey from one moment to the next and its silky softness changed into a greasy look. The cursed wizard was by now rolling around in the dust on the floor, crying out horribly. Underneath his fine, expensive clothing, numerous bones appeared to be shifting to different positions. Malfoy's right shoulder blade was curving outwards.

Entranced, in spite of being horrified, the spectators watched these horrific changes. Some had raised themselves from their seats; nobody wanted to miss a thing of Malfoy's alarmingly terrifying transformation.

The rearrangement of the back appeared to be complete: underneath Malfoy's expensive robe there was now a horrendous hump. Suffering from terrible pains, he tried to claw his hands into the stone flooring. With harsh, ugly rasps his nails scratched the stone in vain as his fingers lengthened and became spidery. They looked pale where they emerged from his black cloak. His fingernails also grew with incredible speed and it took no time at all for Malfoy to develop long, torn and horribly un-groomed nails.

The worst change, however, took place in his face. The masses moaned in fear and the first row actually moved back a little as Malfoy raised his head and awkwardly brushed some strands of greasy grey hair away from his face with his claw-like hands. There was nothing left from the once attractive, downright handsome man.

A long, hooked nose decorated the middle of a face that was curiously elongated. A high, now sweaty brow limited his face on the upper side, while on the underside was a chin that seemed inclined to reach forward. His cheeks were pale and slack. His lips had all but disappeared; the previously so well-formed mouth, that had captivated every female, could only be imagined now. Deep wrinkles had appeared in his facial skin, giving him an old look; his face was as furrowed as a mountain landscape where water from glaciers had forced its way. It was a terrible sight and nobody of those present was capable of looking him in the face for an extended period of time.

Shocked and nauseated in the face of this ghastly change, they all stared at the floor. This reaction didn't escape Lucius Malfoy. "A mirror, Dumbledore, I want a mirror, immediately," he cried at his judge, all but panicking.

From thin air, a large mirror appeared in front of Malfoy. One look and he shrieked with terror, holding his misshapen hands in front of his terrible face in a futile attempt to hide his hideousness. "Undo this. That's not me; I can't live like this," it sounded muffled from behind his hands.

"Otherwise kill me this instant," he beseeched Dumbledore.

But Dumbledore said unmoved: "Your appearance is now the mirror of your soul. You have earned it for yourself with your terrible crimes. However, I will give you a chance to regain your former looks."

With a swish of his wand, he conjured a beautiful, long-stemmed, red rose, which he lowered to the floor next to Malfoy. "To reverse this curse, Lucius Malfoy, you get a period of exactly five years; as long as this rose blooms, there is still time left. Find someone who is capable of sincerely loving you in your current form; after five years, the rose will have lost all its petals and if you haven't found anyone who is willing to give you their unconditional, true and pure love by then, you will be forced to live the rest of your life as you are now."

At that, Dumbledore raised his hand and beckoned a bailiff. Said bailiff took a rigid Malfoy by the arm and led the suddenly frail-looking man from the courtroom.

On his way out, the once so proud and arrogant man pulled his robe around his unattractive, bony body and ducked his head. Every contemptuous look that was thrown at him by the people looking after him, wounded him deeply. Convulsively clutching the rose in his hand, he didn't care that the thorns were piercing his flesh. The pain that was raging inside of him on account of his hideous appearance was far superior to any pain that the thorns could ever evoke.

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**AN**: Don't be shy; let us know what you think of Dumbledore's ruling! Personally I think it is a sin to spoil something as beautiful as Lucius Malfoy, but then, I am shamelessly in love with the character ;-)


	3. Hermione

**Beauty and the Beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translated by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 2: Hermione

_Four years later_

Hermione was seated in a comfortable chair in the teacher's lounge, reading the newspaper.

She was paying particular attention to ads which people had taken out to sell some of their possessions; you could get great bargains if you bought used books. Her teacher's salary certainly didn't stretch far enough to go to the bookstore in town and buy any and all books she liked. No, it was better to keep one's eyes open and then make one's move. She smiled as she remembered the really good deal she made recently: the man that had been clearing out his mother's house after her death, hadn't even realised what treasures he was all but giving away. He wanted to just get rid of the, as he called them 'irksome dust-collectors', which were stacked almost to the ceiling of a small side-room. Hermione had only taken a quick look at a couple of them, before she knew she wanted the lot. Not just scholastic books, but also special editions of novels and even almost all of Shakespeare's works were to be found. So she agreed to pay the man who was looking disdainfully at her new treasure, a ridiculously low price. The next day, she borrowed a car and ferried all of the books back to her own little house.

She sighed. Technically, her house was already too small to hold all the books she currently owned. However, she just couldn't resist them. Other young females bought wardrobes full of clothes, her tastes simply ran to books. What was the difference?

Ever since she had left the wizarding world behind, books were the only thing that gave meaning to her life, apart from her profession. She had dissolved her parental household and sold the house. After paying off all remaining debts, the existence of which she had been blissfully unaware of up until then, left just enough to pay for her education. She majored in chemistry and physics at a Muggle university, with minors in mathematics and English history. It went without saying that she finished her studies sooner than all of her compatriots and passed with flying colours. Because of this, she had no trouble whatsoever in finding a job. The fact, however, that she had no inclination to be found by any of her former friends, after her wretched departure from the wizarding world, forced her to turn down the well-compensated jobs at universities and large corporations.

She moved to a small town, far away from London and became the physics- and chemistry teacher at the local school. She loved her job and she loved, as always, her books; there was nothing more to her life. Well.. except Michael, of course.

Shortly after starting on her new job, Michael had come into her life. He was a sports teacher and taught at the same school she did. He was tall, had curly brown hair and was very handsome. All of the female students were in love with him as was, Hermione was certain, a fair amount of the female staff. She seemed to be the only one who found him merely agreeable. Time and again, Michael made it clear that he liked her; he often tried to persuade her to go out with him. Every once in a while, Hermione would relent and go to dinner with him or to see a show at the local theatre. His attempts to get closer to her were rebuffed without exception, though. She hardly ever allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders and she flat-out ducked whenever he tried to bring her face closer to his, in order to kiss her. He was disappointed by her resistance, yet it didn't seem to discourage him, convinced as he was that she would give up sooner or later and yield to his desires.

"Every time I see you, you are reading. Do you ever do anything ordinary, like sleeping or eating?" Speak of the devil... Hermione let the newspaper drop into her lap as she looked up into the smiling face of Michael.

"Of course. Sometimes I sleep and every once in a while I eat as well," she responded and attempted to continue reading.

"I was thinking we should go out sometime soon." The guy was unrelenting.

"Tomorrow, for instance; as you probably know we have the day off. We could..."

Hermione interrupted him. "I can't, I already have plans for tomorrow. It says here that there will be a market for used books." She indicated a small add in the paper that had drawn her attention. Michael took the paper from her and looked at it in disgruntlement. "It also says it's in Thornhill; that's more than ten miles from here! How are you going to get there without a car?"

"I'm going to walk. Like you said, we have the day off, so I have plenty of time. Besides, the weather's supposed to be really nice tomorrow. So...I can walk." Hermione hardly ever found herself without a response. Especially not when she had a plan she wanted to implement.

"Hermione, Hermione.... what am I supposed to do with you?" Michael sighed theatrically.

"You could come along, if you insist," she offered rather half-heartedly. She didn't particularly value Michael's company. And he could tell. Besides, he wasn't the least bit interested in a book market.

"I think you'd better go alone. You'd better watch yourself though, stay on the road and don't wander into the forest; they say it is haunted."

Hermione gave the sports instructor a disbelieving look. "I can't believe you want me to think you actually believe this nonsense?"

"I don't believe in ghosts, Hermione. But there is something out there, people saw strange things. Twigs snapping unusually loudly, somebody moaning. Only yesterday my neighbour told me that when he went to collect mushrooms in the forest, he saw a hunchbacked figure limping through the forest. When he went to check, it had disappeared. The idiot. Who goes to the forest to pick mushrooms anyway nowadays? He should have just bought them at the supermarket around the corner," Michael blathered.

Hermione pulled up her eyebrows and responded: "However it may be, I am determined to go there tomorrow. If I happen to encounter a monster, I'll pop him one."

She grinned insolently and with that, the subject was no longer up for discussion as far as she was concerned. 'Monster, hunchback....if this jock only knew what kind of things I've seen in my life, his eyes would fall out of his head in surprise.' Hermione shook her head and determinedly focused her attention on the paper.

The next morning, she got up very early, her first thoughts concerning to the weather. Fortunately, the sun was shining merrily and all of a sudden she was looking forward to her outing.

After a small breakfast she slung a – for now – empty backpack over her shoulder; when she returned, it would be filled to the brim with new books. She counted out the money she was willing to spend and headed out of town.

She was making good progress. As she arrived at the edge of the forest, slightly sweaty by now, she halted and considered her options. The dirt road through the forest slung itself through the landscape like a snake; if she chose to follow it, she would be forced to take all these twists and turns, undoubtedly needing more time. If she were to go straight through the forest, however, her path would be significantly shorter. She estimated it would save her about an hour and a half; in her book, that was an indisputable argument to not follow the road, monster or no. She didn't want to waste time and effort which were better spent in dragging her books homewards on the return trip.

Determinedly she turned her back on the road and was swallowed by the undergrowth of the forest in a matter of minutes.

For a while, she paid a lot of attention to her surroundings. She kept looking around and behind her, listening to every sound: every snapping twig, every small movement in the underbrush. She couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary.

Focusing on the nearly invisible path she was following, she shook her head in contempt. Rumours, nothing but old-wives-tales... She was an idiot for having believed, even for a second, that there was anything extraordinary going on in this forest.

Thus, she made her way through the forest, without a care in the world. The sun rose in the sky, sweat droplets appeared on her skin. Every once in a while she halted to wipe her brow. She was moving ever deeper into the forest, when all of a sudden she froze. Something had changed. A moment ago the forest had been filled with life, but now there was no sound. She heard no bird, nothing, only the soft rustling of the trees. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she got the eerie feeling she was being watched from the underbrush. She whirled around: nothing.

Carefully, she lowered the backpack and moved stealthily, turning around again and again, towards a large tree; she wanted to have some cover at the very least. She felt the irregular structure of the bark as she pressed herself against it, sweat now running in little streams down her face. This time it wasn't because of the temperature, however. For the first time since she had snapped her wand, she actually felt sorry for doing it; she would have felt a whole lot better if she had been holding that seemingly insignificant piece of wood right about now.

That was when she heard it. A deep, threatening growl. Her head jerked around and she looked directly into the biggest, yellow eyes she had ever seen.

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**AN**: Ooh, poor Hermione! How will she get out of this one?


	4. The encounter

**Beauty and the Beast **by _Mrs Skinner_

Translated by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 3 The encounter

A bone-chilling cry pierced the sky. He raised his head, listening intently. Without a doubt, it had been a female voice that had cried out. There, another one, louder and more piercing than the first. It appeared someone was in danger, serious danger.

Why should he care? He was an outcast, not a soul knew of his presence here. Unmoved, he continued on his way.

And then he started to reconsider. Should he not go and see what was going on, at least? If he showed himself, she would probably shriek even louder; nobody could bear the sight of him, especially not when he appeared unannounced. On the other hand, why should he care about other people's problems? He had more than enough of his own. With loathing he looked down on himself; he would never get used to his appearance. Shaking his head, he continued on his way in the opposite direction. Surely there was somebody else nearby, who had also heard her crying out and would come to her rescue.

The woman screamed again, longer this time. His steps slowed and he came to a halt again. "Damn it," he cursed softly. There were stirrings in him of something closely resembling a bad conscience. Could he really deal with the fact that someone in his immediate vicinity was in dire need of help and he was doing absolutely nothing?

"You're a cold-hearted bastard," he told himself sternly, even as the warring voice inside of him was getting louder and louder and kept him from making a decision. He stood there as if rooted to the spot and listened intently. If she were to scream again, then he would.... At that moment, he heard her again. Cursing more violently now, he turned around and quickly moved in the direction of the screaming. On his way he picked up a large branch: you never knew what you were dealing with. The screams were now interminable, making it easier for him to ascertain where exactly he was apparently needed so desperately. Growing increasingly worried, he sped up his already fast pace even further. Foregoing any and all caution now, he swung his makeshift bat around, hitting smaller branches as he forced his way through the thick underbrush.

She cried out again, more desperate and very close-by and then he saw her. Without faltering, he hurled himself from the underbrush.

Fearfully, panic clearly visible on her face, she had pressed herself against a large tree. She had raised her arms in a defensive gesture, as if that would help her! An entire pack of wolves had surrounded her, seemingly mocking her with their opened maws. A threatening growl was heard; they were out for blood.

That would probably explain why it took the beasts a couple of moments to realise that there was somebody else, somebody who might help this female...or somebody who might just be dessert.

But he was an experienced fighter; he had fought to the death a large number of times in his life and he didn't want to give these creatures the time to adapt to the new situation. With an exceedingly loud battle-cry, bat high above his head and swinging around as if it were nothing but a light wand, he threw himself in the midst of the wolves like a madman. While running, he pulled a large knife from the waistband of his tattered trousers. Before the animals had a chance to react, he had already slit two of their throats. With limbs jerking and blood spraying everywhere, the two fell to the forest floor.

There was a moment of silence, then all hell was breaking loose: the wolves all focused on the newcomer, regrouping and continually attacking him, one after the other. But he had also chosen a tree to cover his back and with apparent ease he warded off these creatures of the forest. One after the other dropped to the floor, either after having been hit with the bat, which he swung with force at their heads, or having been pierced by his large knife, which he employed with great skill and precision. It took less than five minutes for the forest floor to be soaked with blood and littered with dead wolf-bodies.

Still, there were a couple of wolves left. They steered clear of this unusual man, but kept circling him, continually searching for a weakness. Intently and continuously he watched the animals that were circling him; sweat was pouring down his face and his greasy gray hair was stuck to his head. He knew it wasn't over yet. The bat in his hand was getting more and more heavy though, the battle demanding an incredible amount of power from him, but he didn't want to give in. If he was going to die, then he wanted to take as many of the creatures with him as he could possibly manage. His eyes focused on the young female that was still pressed against the tree anxiously and had followed his progress. Her large, fearful eyes moved back and forth between him and the other monsters; she looked somewhat familiar to him. But now was not the time to search his brain. Besides, he was wondering what she was still doing here; she could have been miles away by now, the stupid girl.

He cleared his throat. "The next time they attack, you run," he ordered her in a rough voice. Hermione gave no response whatsoever, staring unseeingly at the wolves that were circling him. "Pay attention, damn it and listen to what I say, woman!" he cried angrily. "When I say so, you start running, and quick and whatever you do, don't look back! Do you understand?"

"But I can't leave you here alone," she argued, her whole body shaking, yet she wasn't moving from her spot.

At this moment, the wolves decided to attack. Together, they fell onto the man against the tree and buried him beneath their furry bodies. Hermione heard a muffled "Ruuuuuun!", then his voice was lost in the wolves' growling.

And still, she remained where she was. She just couldn't tear her gaze away from the fighting creatures. She couldn't see him behind the wall of black, moving skin, the large fangs and even bigger claws. But she could hear how his knife buried itself in their flesh with a hideous, squelching sound, he still defended himself, he was still fighting....but for how long?

After a seemingly endless amount of time, there was movement in the indefinable bundle. Hardly believing her eyes, Hermione watched as a visibly stricken, extremely ugly man covered in blood from head to toe, slowly worked his way from under the all but lifeless bodies of the wolves. His knife was still striking out at the wolves' throats and he mercilessly slit those of the remaining surviving beasts. Hermione couldn't look away from this horrible spectacle; she stared at the massacre as if in a trance.

Swaying and all but at the end of his powers, the man staggered to the side when his gory work was done. He reached a patch of forest floor that wasn't soaked in blood. With a heart-rending sigh, he fell to his knees, breathing heavily. He turned his head and his wandering eyes met hers.

"You're still here," he uttered incredulously. But at the moment, it didn't seem very important. He had won and even survived. He was bleeding from numerous wounds though, he saw as he looked at himself, furthermore his whole body ached. 'A little time to rest,' he thought and tried to breathe more slowly, in an attempt to suppress the ache in his limbs. He didn't pay the least bit of attention to her anymore; she would disappear soon enough, now that the danger was truly gone, he assumed.

He sensed she was coming closer though and immediately tried to keep his distance. He lurched to his feet and gave her a bewildered look from bloodshot eyes. She was the only one, the only one who didn't run off screaming as soon as she saw his face. Large, shimmering brown eyes were looking at him with compassion. He moaned softly. Compassion was the last thing he wanted; she should just go and leave him the hell alone.

"Go...just go away." His voice sounded clipped and worn.

"You're hurt," she countered softly, moving slowly closer and raising her hand to touch him.

"Don't touch me." He sounded almost horrified, staggering backwards.

"You need a doctor; you have large bleeding wounds, not to mention the fact that you probably need vaccinations against tetanus and rabies. Let me help you." Hermione didn't understand him.

She gave him an appraising look. There was hardly any part of his body that wasn't covered in either his own or the wolves' blood. Despite that, she could still see how incredibly hideous he was. The closer she got to him, the clearer the particulars of his misshapen body became. Regardless! He came to her aid and had even risked his life for her; she couldn't just leave him here like this.

"Please," she started, "I could help you. Let me take a look at your wounds."

"Listen to me carefully, you ignorant wench, I don't need your help. You will go away now and forget you ever saw me. I will manage just fine without you. Not to mention that fact that I wouldn't even be in this mess, if you hadn't been so foolish to take this route. What were you doing here anyway?"

His voice was cold and dismissive.

"I was on my way to Thornhill....and besides it's none of your business what I was doing here." She was slowly getting angry. "The forest doesn't belong to you, after all. I didn't know it was so dangerous to pass through here. God, I had never even heard about wolves being here."

Breathlessly, she stood in front of the hunchback, furious that she had to fight with her saviour like this and still so shaken by the whole event, that she couldn't completely suppress the trembling of her hands.

"Woman, if you had stayed on the road, you would never have gotten yourself into this situation. Now get lost already." When she didn't leave, he decided he would in her stead. As dignified as possible in the given situation, he turned around and was about to disappear into the underbrush of the forest.

"Where are you going?"

"Home, where else? Not that that's any of your business, either." He didn't even turn back.

"Wait a minute! Are you saying you live here in the forest? There's nothing around here!"

She backed away in fear as he whirled around and hobbled quickly towards her, still bleeding and now livid. "How would you know what is or isn't around here? You didn't know about the wolves either! Yes, I live here and it's not your business in any way, shape or form. Go home, woman! I find I don't feel like saving you again. From wolves _or_ anything else."

He raised his hands, in order to push her away from him with force, changed his mind however and stuffed them into his trouser pockets when he saw the horrified glance she threw his deformed fingers.

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you," he mumbled, turned and moved away.

"Won't you at least tell me your name?" Her voice was clear and friendly and somehow slightly apologetic. Rather unusual for someone to pay so much heed to a creature like him. He wasn't used to it. He pondered briefly.

"Linus Manley." He increased his pace; he wanted nothing to do with this exceedingly curious female.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Hermione Granger," she said to his back.

He faltered, his entire body stiffening. Then he resumed his way, a little faster still.

"Not nice to meet you. Not at all nice to meet you," he gasped, almost panic-stricken and leaving a trail of blood behind, disappeared behind some trees.

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**AN**: I like this chapter so much, that I couldn't stop translating it and, in hopes of you all liking it just as much as I do, I just had to upload it right away. Don't be shy and let us know what you think ;-)


	5. The visit

**Beauty and the Beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 4 The visit

Hermione had taken the quickest possible route home after the terrible ordeal in the woods. Forgetting all about the book market, there was only one thing on her mind: get out of this blasted green hell.

After the shock of the survived ordeal wore off, her culpability in the unknown man's injuries had kept her awake for two nights in a row. She hadn't told anyone about what happened. Michael had asked about the market the day after, but she had brushed him off with some trite remark. It seemed as if what had happened was a nightmare from long ago times. Again and again she saw in her mind's eye the wolves suddenly surrounding her and an unsightly man bursting forth from the trees to help her, shouting terrifyingly. She was still annoyed with his pretentious, dismissive attitude towards her, yet she felt guilty. He had been injured and she hadn't been able to give him appropriate aid. Apparently he lived in the forest and it didn't bear thinking about how he would be doing by now. Surely, he didn't have the means to take adequate care of his wounds and maybe he was laying somewhere in the throes of fever right now and it would be all her fault if he were.

But Hermione Granger wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she couldn't have cared less. She knew that, somewhere, there was a human in need of help and she just had to provide it: it was second nature to her. Regardless of the fact that it might take her into dangerous territory once again. With dread she thought of the forest and which other dangerous creatures might be lurking within. Nevertheless, after three days of endless grappling with the idea, she was leaving for the forest, having taken some careful precautions.

She had searched on the internet and discovered that in the middle of the, rather large, forest, there was an abandoned and run-down manor house. Her infallible instincts, honed in many years of battle, told her that the deformed man couldn't be living anywhere but there. Unless he preferred a shack that he had erected himself, but somehow she didn't think he would. She printed a map of the area and packed supplies in the form of ample provisions and bandages. In a little shop at the edge of town she bought pepper spray that worked on dogs (she assumed wolves ought to be no problem either then) and a so-called paralyser, which generated a current strong enough to paralyse any living creature for a couple of moments, as the sales person had assured her a couple of times. They weren't her trusted wand by any stretch of the imagination, but in a pinch they would certainly come in handy.

Thus equipped, she re-entered the forest four days after her horror trip. She moved quickly but cautiously, her eyes watching every shadow and looking behind every bush. Basically she expected some monster to burst forth and attack her the whole time. Every now and then she checked her map: the last thing she needed was to get lost. She made good progress and after two hours of brisk walking she reached a clearing, from which she could already see some ivy-covered walls. The mansion stood in the middle of the forest and at first glance appeared to derelict and abandoned.

Cautiously she approached the old walls, walking in a circle around the ruin in an attempt to locate the door. In spite of the fact that it seemed as if it had been decades since anyone lived here, the old moss-covered stones and the partially broken windows that hung crookedly in their hinges held an odd charm for her. It reminded her a little of Hogwarts. The thought elicited a sharp pang in her chest and she immediately called herself to order: that part of her life was permanently closed off: she would never again see the venerable walls of the proud, Scottish castle and thinking about it continuously would get her nowhere.

"Hello? Anybody there?"

She felt as if somebody was watching her from one of the upstairs windows, but she got no reply. He had to be in there and it appeared that he wasn't going to open the door for her or even acknowledge her presence. She rounded a corner and unexpectedly found herself in front of a large, oak door. She jangled the rusted door handle, but the door appeared to be locked. Next she used the ancient door knocker, producing a loud clanging sound of metal and wood. Hermione cringed. True, she wanted to be heard by the manor's resident, but she realised that the inadvertently loud noise could also attract unwanted attention. Warily, she glanced in the direction of the forest; there was nothing suspicious that she could see. When she turned back towards the door, she saw that it was no longer locked; there was a small gap visible between door and doorjamb.

"Very peculiar," Hermione murmured as she gave it a poke with her index finger. Creaking, the door opened.

Apprehensively, she poked her head inside. "Hellooooo, are you at home? Mr Manley?" Apart from a rather impressive reverberation of her words, there was no reply.

"Right. Apparently not," she grumbled quietly and entered the house. She could have a quick look around in any case. Like before, she felt as if she wasn't alone; just to be on the safe side, she took the paralyser in her hand as she started to explore.

A little uncertain about how to proceed, she halted in the middle of the room she was standing in and looked around. The foyer of the manor would have been very impressive, if it hadn't been neglected and decaying. The stone floor that at one point in time had probably been polished to a shine, now looked gloomy and dull and was littered with countless leaves and small branches that had apparently flown in through the large windows.

The broad and brilliant emerald carpet that covered the imposing stairs leading to the higher floors was worn and had partially come loose from its moorings. The white marble that covered the walls was as dull and weather-beaten as the stone flooring; the entire house felt as if it had been empty for a hundred years.

With distaste Hermione looked at the handful of pieces of furniture, all of which had seen better days. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, to boot.

"What are you doing here?" The words thundered down at her from a floor up.

Hermione started vehemently, then regained her composure and walked towards the stairs. "Hello Mr Manley. It's me, Hermione Granger. Do you remember me?"

"I know who you are. What I want to know is what you're doing here?"

As quickly as the tripping hazard named loose carpet and his physical disability allowed, he hobbled down the stairs. Pulling himself up to his full height in front of the young female, he gave her a cool look that spoke volumes.

"I have been looking for you. I wanted to know how you were doing." Hermione suppressed the urge to take a step back. Icy grey eyes filled with anger looked at her. Not for the first time, the thought rose that those remarkably coloured eyes looked somehow familiar. It vanished almost as soon as it had surfaced though, the situation too threatening. It was beyond obvious he didn't want her here.

"You've reassured yourself I'm still alive. I am, in fact, _excellent,_ so get out of my bloody house!"

"_Your_ house? This isn't your house; I have done some research," she reverted to her old, bossy ways. There was no way she was going to let herself be intimidated; stubbornly she tilted her chin and looked straight into his coldly gleaming grey eyes.

"You have _what_?" He moved a little closer. Manley's unattractive face was now only centimetres from hers and it enabled her to discern every single, ugly pore. Merlin's beard the man was repulsive!

Still, she couldn't look away from him. With distaste she took in the long, gray, greasy strands that stuck to his head and hung haphazardly down on his scruffy clothes; the dilapidated look of the manor was startlingly mirrored in his appearance. Her gaze went to Manley's misshapen body that slanted slightly forward; she suspected that the deformation of his back made it impossible for him to stand completely upright. A slight shudder went through her at the look of his long, thin fingers with the even longer nails. How, with these extraordinarily long fingernails could he even pick up anything? Blimey, the man wasn't just abysmally ugly, he also didn't seem to care one jot about the state of his clothing!

Her gaze went back towards his face, the pale skin which was littered with reddish lines, the large hooked nose that just didn't want to fit his face and the incredibly wrinkled forehead, which gave him the appearance of an ancient man. She wondered how old he really was. And then she reached his eyes. Those lovely, silver eyes, which were flashing angrily at her and which simply refused to blend in with his grotesque appearance. Again, she couldn't suppress the feeling she'd seen those eyes somewhere before... it would come to her sooner or later; she had a photographic memory.

"I believe you have stared at me for long enough," the object of her perusal hissed venomously and pointed his long, crooked finger in the direction of the door. "Go away and don't you dare return!"

"Please, I only want to help you. Do you have bandages or disinfectant? I know you were injured, all the blood, remember? You left an unmistakable trail behind you and since I am already here..." She touched his arm for a moment and he jolted as if he had gotten an electric shock.

"Get your hands off of me! I swear, if you don't leave of your own volition, then I'll throw you out," he bellowed, pushing her into taking a step backward this time. He roughly grabbed her by the arm and wanted to roughly drag her after him in the direction of the door; the furious movement, however, must have aggravated one of his injuries, since he couldn't suppress a groan and abruptly let go of her arm. A bloodstain appeared on his shoulder, visibly growing larger.

Frightened by the rough treatment and its unexpected consequence, Hermione stared at the rapidly spreading bloodstain. "I think you need my help after all, sir." Composing herself she urged the man, who was obviously in great pain, in the direction of the stairs.

"Tell me where I should take you," she said, looking around searchingly.

Manley grunted unintelligibly into his beard, still indignantly trying to fend her off. His strength, however, was failing him. He had been injured more severely than he had wanted to admit and the facade that he had erected when faced with her unannounced visit, was crumbling before her eyes.

He grabbed the banister and started ascending the steps slowly. If he ignored her long enough, she would go away eventually, he tried to convince himself once more. Unfortunately she wasn't in the mood to humour him; like a shadow she walked alongside, careful not to touch him, since he seemed to dislike that so thoroughly. She was worried though and remained nearby to lend him a steadying hand if he needed it.

Again he grumbled softly to himself. He would rather die here and now than having to accept the help of a Mudblood and this particular Mudblood at that. Unfortunately he didn't have the strength to tell her what he thought of her assistance and her presence in this house. He needed to focus to remain standing long enough to reach his bedroom. He could tell that, because of his movements, more and more of his wounds were starting to bleed again. The fluid felt warm and sticky as it dripped down his back; the startled gasp from his shadow telling him the fact hadn't escaped her notice either.

After a seemingly endless journey, he finally reached the room he was currently using as a bedroom. He opened the door and, ignoring everything and everybody else, shuffled towards his bed.

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**AN**: Bad Lucius! What naughty thoughts you're having.... Well, life hasn't been very kind lately, so I suppose we could forgive you.....But don't start thinking it's because we're all in love with you or something of the kind.... ;-)

Review please!


	6. Linus Manley

**AN**: Mrs Skinner has asked me to tell you all how baffled she was by all the positive response this story has garnered. She never expected to get so many reviews and is absolutely ecstatic! She wanted me to tell you all that she is very happy you like her story so much and for taking the time to write all those wonderful reviews.

She hopes you'll like the rest of the story just as much as you've enjoyed the beginning and is looking forward to reading your responses as we go along.

As translator, I'd like to add my own modest thanks for the nice response you've given this story: even though I'm merely translating it, it gives me much joy to read how much you like it.

Thank you all and please stay with us for the remainder of the story! For now, here's the next installment.  


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**Beauty and the Beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 5 Linus Manley

_Flashback_

After leaving the courtroom in his new, horrendous form with his head held high, in spite of the surging laughter, the accusing fingers pointed at him and some booing, he had wanted only one thing: to get away from this place that had only brought him shame and disgrace. As fast as he could, he departed. He had left several streets behind him, checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed by anyone before he slumped against the closest wall, breathing heavily. His heart was thumping, his thoughts whirled through his head and his stomach felt as it was about to turn inside-out, contents and all.

Cold sweat was beading on his forehead, but he only noticed it when it dripped into his eyes, stinging. His normally so sharp and analytical mind told him that he must be having a panic attack for the first time in his life. For the first time since he could think, he had no idea what to do, could hardly comprehend what had just happened to him. He needed some time to determine what to do and where to go. He had lost his ability to do magic, which meant he couldn't even leave this hated place, where he had suffered such degradation. Malfoy Manor wasn't an option. He couldn't and wouldn't return to his mansion; not looking like this, not after what happened. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't even lift the wards surrounding his home, since he was no longer a wizard.

He pondered what to do now. His life, as he knew and loved it, was irrevocably over: he had become the laughing stock of the entire wizarding world. Everybody would point at him and whisper about him behind his back. Even worse, they would maybe show their disdain to his face, like earlier in court: no one had ever dared do that before.

What bothered him most, was that he had been discredited: nobody would want to do business with him anymore, nobody would take him seriously and certainly nobody would be intimidated, like before, when he walked with his head held high, dressed in expensive robes, with a proud countenance into the thick of the action.

Lastly, he became painfully aware of the fact that he had lost his family. There was nobody left whom he cared about or needed to take care of: he had failed in all respects. It left only one possible conclusion: he had to drastically change his life, leave the wizarding world, at least for as long as it would take him to regain his previous looks if nothing else. He was already suffering unspeakably. He couldn't even bring himself to look down on his own body and carefully hid the long, spidery fingers in the pockets of his robe.

First order of business was to get the hell away; he didn't want to run into anybody he knew. He wasn't capable of dealing with malice or even ridicule at the moment. For the first time in his life, he was on the side of those whom he used to look down on with biting sarcasm and limitless arrogance: the losers. He hated it with a passion and it hadn't even been one hour since he had been forced to change sides.

This is how he dragged himself through the streets, keeping to the shadows and making sure that his face was hidden in the folds of his hood at all times. His limp annoyed him to no end and it took him a while to find a semi-smooth rhythm. He didn't know how long he had been walking, but when he looked around and saw the neglect and dirt all around him, he concluded he must have gotten to the seedy neighbourhoods of London.

He scanned his surroundings and discovered a dark entryway; he dragged his body over there. He needed a moment to think and most of all to rest a little. Never before had he ever walked this far. He sat down next to some boxes and other junk, not caring that there was a nauseating smell and there were rats running around, quarrelling amongst themselves for the only available food. He was more confused than he had ever been in his life. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him. Just sit here for a moment, to clear your mind and rest, he told himself. But his thoughts kept going around in circles. Well, at least Dumbledore had left him his brilliant mind. He looked at the problem from left and right, up and down for a considerable amount of time, formulated some plans, discarded most of them out of hand and after endless considering and reconsidering, interrupted by having to shoo away a couple of impudent rats who tried to gnaw on his shoes, he knew roughly what he was going to do.

He had decided to rigorously put an end to his previous life: Lucius Malfoy would simply disappear in the confusion after the Dark Lord's death. He would do what nobody would expect of the aristocratic, arrogant former wizard: he would turn his back on the wizarding world and live in the Muggle world. Not forever, he didn't want to be that extreme at this point in time, but at least until he succeeded in breaking the curse. He didn't question the fact that he could make a living doing business in the Muggle world, despite his current, rather untrustworthy appearance. The Muggles were so primitive, he would simple short-change someone or other – just like he did for years in the wizarding world – create dependencies and make himself a new life, far away from magic. His stomach clenched painfully. He missed the gentle, soft, ever-present humming inside of him, which had signified the presence of magic at his disposal. Again and again, he listened inside himself, hoping against hope that it had returned, but it didn't. In the years to come he would catch himself regularly just sitting there and focusing on the core of his being, but there was nothing there. He was empty, as hollow as an empty vat of whiskey. All magic had disappeared, forever. He would have to get used to this, one way or the other, to make do without magic and that would be very hard. He had been rather proficient in wandless magic and hadn't needed his wand in most cases.

He sighed softly once more and got to his feet. Making sure that the rose which he had cautiously stowed in the inside pocket of his robes was still there, he started on his way: he had a plan and exhibiting the usual, Malfoy stubbornness he pursued it.

In the years to come, Lucius had to conclude that his original plan to settle in the Muggle world and go about his usual business wasn't feasible. He had obviously underestimated these Muggles.

After he had retrieved some money from various hiding spots and exchanged it for Muggle currency against horrendous interest rates on the black market, he tried to go to the few business partners he had in Muggle London. But they wanted to have nothing to do with this less than trust-inspiring man, whom they treated with suspicion. Time and again, his business ventures failed when the Muggles met Malfoy, got spooked by his appearance and rescinded their offers. He tried to do business by way of a middle man and keep to the shadows himself, but even that failed. It almost seemed as if there was also a curse on his attempts to create a new life, or rather a new identity for himself. One deal after the other went belly-up and Malfoy's Muggle money was steadily dwindling.

At some point, he had to concede that he was virtually penniless. Again an unforeseen hopelessness and resignation seized Malfoy; he had never failed at anything in his life. These setbacks had as a consequence that he retreated back into himself even more, being at odds with his fate. He grew increasingly melancholy and, very unusual for him, extremely depressed. He only sporadically paid attention to his personal hygiene these days and stopped caring about the state his clothes were in altogether. The only thing he looked after almost lovingly, was the rose. He took painstaking care that she always had enough clean water and guarded her like life itself.

The years passed without anything noteworthy happening in the life of Lucius Malfoy. After a while he could no longer afford the rent of his cheap and uncomfortable room in a sleazy hotel. As a rule, he had to secretly disappear in the dead of night because he owed somebody some money or because he had cheated the landlord or some of the other guests.

Every once in a while he stooped to do some physical work, but usually he made himself a little money with small swindles. In spite of it all, he kept his distance to the magical world. Because of his petty crimes though, he was forced to change his whereabouts regularly. At some point in time, he ended up in the vicinity of Thornhill.

He heard about the abandoned mansion in the forest near Thornhill by chance and he took this one-time opportunity to have housing that he didn't even have to pay rent for. So he settled down in the abandoned manor. From then on, people saw an ugly, hunchbacked figure moving through the woods, spreading fear among them. Lucius hadn't intended for this to happen, but he didn't mind; it allowed him his peace. He was, on the contrary, rather happy that he didn't have to meet anybody. He kept away from the roads through the forest and only left its leafy safety to commit the petty crimes that afforded him a small income.

He lived quite peacefully like that until more than four years of Dumbledore's curse had passed. He had never forgotten the timeframe he had been given, but had likewise never had the opportunity to do anything to improve his situation. There was nobody in the new life of Lucius Malfoy; there was no one who could possibly have given him affection and of course he wouldn't find anybody willing to grant him the gift of unconditional love. He had all but resigned himself to his unalterable appearance. Just as he had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to live in the Muggle world forever, living the life of a social misfit and outcast. And then, of all people, he ran into Hermione Granger.

He almost didn't recognize her when he had met her again in the forest a couple of days ago. She looked vaguely familiar, yes, but he would have bet he had met her once in his new, ever-changing life. The moment she told him who she was, he had been so shocked that he had almost given himself away. Fortunately there was still enough of Lucius Malfoy's self-control left in him that he at least had been able to give her a fictitious name in the spur of the moment. He wondered though what the female part of the golden trio, of all people, was doing here so far away from the Wizarding world. She didn't appear to be aware of his sentence and apparently hadn't recognized him. He fled as fast as he could, despite his injuries.

Arriving in his dwelling, the first thing he did was produce some makeshift-bandages for his wounds, then fell onto his equally makeshift-bed and sighed. He briefly considered leaving and disappearing as soon as possible, but the last bit of Malfoy-pride left in him had told him not to go. After all, nothing happened really and after her terrible ordeal in the forest, she would surely never go back there, he reasoned.

Too bad he didn't take Hermione Granger's stubbornness into account. She did go back into the woods, despite her reservations and had the audacity to look for him and, even worse, actually _find_ him or rather his abode. Of course, she also wouldn't be kept from entering an abandoned house; she invaded his territory and didn't even seem intimidated by his dismissive demeanour.

She ignored his rather strenuous demands that she leave the house, followed him calmly into his makeshift-bedroom and in spite of his attempts to resist, started to take care of his wounds. He didn't know which he hated more: her intrusive solicitude, or the fact that she was exactly the sort of person he wished would never discover his true identity.

He could still see her on the battlefield, bent over the bodies of her parents. What would Hermione Granger say if she found out that the man she was caring for so diligently, was partially responsible for the death of her parents? What would she do if she found out that the man she knew as Linus Manley, was the same man who had stood by as she was being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, doing nothing whatsoever to stop her? Would she curse him with an Unforgivable? No, she was much too virtuous to ever do something like that, he decided as he submitted to Hermione's efforts. In all probability, she would turn her face away from him in disgust, but not before spitting him in the face.

Tbc...


	7. Wounded

**AN**: I really like the sort of chapter below: poor, wounded male lead, being nursed by smart, strong female lead, so I couldn't keep myself from translating it quickly.

Enjoy!

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**Beauty and the Beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _Snapeseraphin_

Chapter 6 Wounded

Hermione put the bowl with lukewarm water on the small and rickety bedside table. She threw a scrutinizing look on the motionless figure laying on the makeshift bed, covered in numerous white bandages and slumbering. She pulled the only available chair in the room close to the bed and sat down. Sighing, she rummaged around in her backpack. She had tried to prepare for all eventualities and she was grateful that she had brought a couple of clean towels. Clearly, the man in front of her didn't put much stock in personal hygiene: despite her thorough search she hadn't found anything that met her standards for clean laundry. After some digging she pulled a clean towel from the backpack, wetted it with water and gently smoothed it over Manley's pale face. She put her hand on his forehead: he felt warm to the touch: she hoped he wasn't getting a fever. As well-equipped as she was, she didn't have access to antibiotics without a proper prescription. She couldn't brew the appropriate potion either, since she didn't have any of the ingredients, nor the necessary equipment for potions brewing.

It was one of the few instances where she regretted having cut all ties to the wizarding world so drastically. But maybe he wasn't suffering from fever and he would get back on his feet after a little while. She leaned back in the chair and allowed herself to take in this very unusual man. She was somewhat surprised at the sheer number of disfigurements united in his body: if she hadn't been absolutely sure that she was deep in Muggle territory at the moment, she would have guessed his appearance was the result of some curse or other. An appearance like his could very well be a punishment. She shook her head indignantly. Who would do something like this to another human being and, first and foremost, why? But, one way or the other, his looks were a curse: she couldn't even begin to imagine, how he would stand out among other people and she didn't need a lot of imagination to see how he would have been mocked or how many horrified looks he had met with. Small wonder then, that he had retreated to the loneliness of this derelict house.

Manley appeared to be dreaming. He threw himself from one side to the other and it seemed as if he was fighting with someone. Maybe he was reliving the wolf-attack? Again, a hot surge of guilt went through Hermione: if it hadn't been for her, nothing like that would have happened. She caught hold of the man's fidgeting hands and tried to convey feelings of security and peace through physical contact. She had to really overcome herself, to be able to take the ugly, untended hands in her own. After she had done it, however and felt the slightly hard and very warm palm against her own, her revulsion dwindled abruptly. It wasn't at all unpleasant to touch him. Come to think of it, neither had it been unpleasant when she was cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Hermione had had a weakness for the tormented and the oppressed from the get-go. It wasn't very surprising, therefore, that she felt sorry for this man and his fate, making her fear of touching him disappear completely.

At first he had resisted her: he didn't want to take off his shredded clothing, backing away from her continuously. He didn't attempt to attack her physically, though. Instead, he had viciously insulted her. Hermione had ignored him: the fact that she was responsible for his current condition, allowed her to tune him out. When the much larger and stronger man had been forced into a corner she had briskly taken hold of his jacket and pulled it off of his body in one powerful movement. Unfortunately, it tore in two because of this, earning Hermione another rant from her victim. Hermione's face was getting red from the exertion and her arms were starting to hurt: it wasn't easy to rob the man, who despite his injuries was still very strong, of his clothes against his will AND endure his copious invectives.

At some point – she didn't know exactly how she'd gotten this far– she was down to his undershirt. Her hands seized this as well and she tried to pull it over his head; she failed, because Manley was much taller than she. With triumph in his eyes and a wolfish grin he had looked at her, which annoyed her to no end.

"Mr Manley, if you don't want for me to add a couple of injuries to the multitude of rather bad ones you have already, you'd better take off your shirt right now and let me help you!" She had pulled herself up to her full height and tilted her chin stubbornly as she stood in front of the taller man who was still in the corner of this derelict room.

"What could _you_ hope to do to me?" he snapped at her furiously.

Hermione didn't dither: she had just about had enough of this arrogant, stubborn fellow! She grabbed him and a yelp sounded through the room: her hand was clutched around one of the still-bleeding wounds on Manley's upper arm. She regretted having to do this, but he left her no other choice. Manley, obviously hadn't counted on this particular tactic, as his face, which was contorted with pain, also showed a healthy amount of surprise. After just seconds, she let go of him, pointedly wiping her bloody hand on the undershirt he was still wearing.

Stony-faced she once again told him to let her help him. Contrary to expectations, the man gave in and – still in pain – tore the blood-smeared undershirt from his body. With verve, he threw it on the heap of previously torn clothing in the other corner of the room and turned to face his tormentor. For a while he stared at her shimmering brown eyes as they took in his naked torso with horror.

He spread his arms mockingly and turned for her.

"Do you like what you see?" he sneered, unable to mask the undertone of hurt in his voice. Without a doubt she was shocked by the mere sight of his one-time well-groomed, nicely proportioned upper body. His skin now was wrinkled and ashen and at the back the hideous deformation of his shoulder took centre stage. Added to that were the new, in some cases still bleeding wounds the wolves had caused him. He was scarcely something a young female would like to look at. Mortified, Manley turned away from her and leaned against the wall briefly. That look she gave him just now, he knew only too well: it held pity and fright. He hated these looks, which were generally his due, with a passion. Never had anyone looked at him like that before his sentence and for the thousandth time he cursed an old wizard named Dumbledore.

Hermione actually _was_ a little shaken by this new display of Manley's ugliness. What horrified her more however, were the deep wounds the wolves' claws and their fangs respectively had caused: he would carry the scars of this encounter for the rest of his life. Not that it mattered much: with all the deformities, a couple of scars more or less didn't make much of a difference. Hermione scolded herself to show some compassion: he didn't deserve for her to think about him that way. So she answered his question with: "It doesn't matter whether or not I like what I see. I am here to help you, not to enter you into a beauty contest." Immediately she bit her lip: that hadn't been a particularly compassionate response. Manley's regard darkened accordingly. His normally ice grey eyes turned a considerably darker colour: a sea of dark grey whirled through them and annoyed Hermione anew. He closed his mouth, pressing his lips together firmly, shoved her aside as he passed and sat down on his makeshift bed with a suppressed moan. Without looking at her, he murmured.

"Then I suggest you get to it, already! Help me. And then get the hell out of here!"

From then on, he stopped resisting her, but every once in a while a hate-filled gaze struck her face. She tried to ignore them and concentrated on taking care of his wounds. When it was finally done, he sighed once more and turned his back towards her.

"You can go now. You have done your duty," it sounded loftily from the pillow.

"I'm not going to allow you to decide when my task here is completed," Hermione answered quietly but with conviction and pulled the thin blanket over his bandaged body. He would be in need of assistance for some time and in that moment, Hermione decided to make it her personal mission to make sure he got it.

Manley appeared to acquiesce. Or at least he didn't reply and after a while his deep breaths told her that he must have fallen asleep.

Again, Hermione wiped the wet towel over the burning forehead of her patient. She was worried and she was thinking. His unwillingness to accept help was disturbing. How despairing did a person have to be, to simply refuse help in his condition? When he started to move restlessly about in his sleep, she talked to him reassuringly. It was unimportant what she was saying exactly, the soothing tone of her voice should calm him down. Gently, she brushed the gray, tousled hair away from his forehead, trying to avoid his wounds and above all his hideousness. After a while she succeeded and she only saw a human being in need of help, which she could provide.

Shortly after, Manley's attempts to repel her left off. Hermione's soft voice and even softer hands hadn't missed their effect on his tormented mind and her tranquillity transferred to him. One last time he sighed, then he fell into a state between waking and fevered dreaming, in which nothing seemed to matter. There was no pain. Deeper and deeper he slid into the darkness; he wanted to find his peace – no longer thinking and feeling anything – and his mind joined forces with his body, gifting him with unconsciousness; sliding away from unpleasant feelings, ideas and dreams. The problems that had plagued the ostracised wizard and had perpetually determined his life were null and void here. There was nothing...just darkness.

Time passed quickly, but Hermione was hardly aware of it. Attentively she watched over the injured man as she sat next to his bed for hours. Every once in a while she placed her hand on Manley's chest to make sure he was still breathing properly. Yes, he was sleeping deeply, was running a fever without a doubt, but he was clearly alive. She guessed it would take quite some time before he was completely healed.

A look at her watch told her that she had to leave now, if she wanted to be home before it got dark. One more time she checked on her patient, wiping his forehead and adjusting his blanket. Quietly, she got up from her chair and after some deliberation balled up all of the clothes she had taken off of him and stuffed them into her backpack. She would either give them a good wash or, the more probable option, she would throw them into the garbage and make sure he got some new ones. On top of that, by making it impossible for him to cover himself, she was pretty sure she could ensure that he wouldn't leave his bed. He probably wouldn't do that anyway, she thought as she was making her way outside; he would be weakened and still have a fever. She had briefly considered leaving him a note at least, to tell him that she would be coming back, but in light of his obvious unwillingness to accept help, she decided against it. He would find out soon enough that he wouldn't get rid of her so easily.

At the same time Hermione left the manor, in a locked room, hidden away in the depth of the estate, another petal fell from the magical rose and floated, as if carried there by a ghostly hand, to the floor.


	8. Awakening

**AN**: Some swearing in this chapter, but rather amusing in my opinion anyway. Please review, to help me convince the original author it _does _take talent to rewrite Beauty and the Beast Harry-Potter-style.

Please enjoy the next chapter!

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**Beauty and the beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 7 Awakening

It was quiet.

No, not entirely: besides his own, somewhat unsteady breathing there was someone else breathing, or more accurately, snoring.

He had awoken after a couple of hours of restless sleep and had ascertained with relief that this dictatorial female had finally left. He had wanted to get up, since his stomach was rumbling and what was more, he was freezing. Somewhere on the ground floor, there had to be a woollen blanket laying around. He fumbled around looking for his clothes in the darkness, failed to find them however, cursing as he kept bumping into the furniture. The though to light the candle on the bedside table didn't even cross his mind. Frustrated and weakened after his fruitless search, he returned to his bed without clothes or wool blanket. He huddled beneath the thin blanket as best he could and tried to fall asleep again.

It didn't matter one way or the other if he died today instead of in a couple of weeks. Apparently not even this blasted patron saint of house-elves could stand to be in his presence...she had walked out on him just like everybody else in his life nowadays, he thought.

He had spent endless hours slumbering and caught in fevered dreams. At some point, a small female hand had smoothed a damp cloth over his face and made him sip water again and again. He hardly noticed. But his fever had abated now and he was growing more aware of his surroundings.

He was reluctant to leave the darkness, which enveloped him like a protective cocoon, but his curiosity to find out if Miss Granger was really here after all, was stronger. Slowly, needing a staggering amount of willpower, Lucius opened his eyes and blinked against the blinding light that at first hurt his eyes. After a little while he could see more clearly, even if he hadn't discovered the source of the light snoring yet. A slightly louder snore was heard then and with difficulty he turned his head in the direction the sound had come from.

He wasn't really surprised to see the person that was sitting in one of the two large, tattered wingback chairs. Her head was laid somewhat awkwardly on the once beautifully carved, wooden armrest, her long brown hair covering her face and apparently she was sleeping the sleep of the just.

It really _was_ Hermione Granger, only a meter away, almost within reach of his arm. The one, whose parents' deaths he was partially responsible for. The one whose life he, in a merciless and vicious fight against the creatures of the forest, had saved. The one, for whom he had risked his pathetic life and the same person who appeared to have taken care of him, if not even saved his life.

Amazed, he watched the sleeping girl. He couldn't understand why she had returned, conveniently forgetting the bitter thoughts he'd had the day before when he discovered her gone.

While he was pondering all this, an exceptionally loud and impressive snore was heard and Hermione was rudely awoken from a sleep that had been very peaceful up until that moment. Confused, she looked around until her gaze met that of the – now awake – Linus Manley.

Immediately she got up and moved to his bed. She placed her hand on his forehead without hesitation, smiling as she realised his fever had broken. Without conscious thought, she brushed a few strands of hair away from his face before she pulled back her hand.

His mystification about the matter of course way she touched him, outweighed his revulsion of the mere presence of this female. She had touched him – without aversion. She had smiled... It had been such a long time since any female had smiled in his presence.

Well, it wasn't as if it meant anything, he told himself sternly. She had to go: he didn't want her near him. He didn't want anyone near him, but especially not this pushy Mudblood.

"Where are my clothes?" he croaked.

"In the dustbin, where they belong." Hermione gave him a scrutinizing look and took a step back.

"You've thrown them into the trash? Are you a few sandwiches short of a picnic?" Manley sat up as well as he could on his pallet and stared at her lividly. "I should bend you over my knee, you ignorant woman! Those were my ONLY clothes, what am I supposed to wear now? Get me something to wear, IMMEDIATELY!" he yelled at her, his voice breaking.

"Come off of it already! You don't really think I would throw away your so-called clothes and not bother about getting you new ones?" Hermione endured his accusations calmly. "Besides the fact that your clothes were so torn that you couldn't have worn them because they consisted of nothing but shreds, they were also so filthy you couldn't have gotten them clean even by bringing them to the dry cleaner's. So I brought you some new ones.

She rummaged through the considerably larger backpack she had brought this time and pulled out a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts and some underwear. With a flourish she dropped them into his lap. "You don't have to thank me," she told him loftily, "I know someone at the local charitable society – the father of one of my students. He has given me these in exchange for a small donation: I got them practically for free."

"That would be the day. Why would I want to thank you? If it hadn't been for you, I would still _have_ my clothes, not to mention my health and what's more, some peace and quiet!" Manley growled crossly, but notably calmer.

He held up the shirts approvingly and noticed with the look of a connoisseur that, although they might not comply with the latest fashions, they were by far the better than any he had worn in years. She even appeared to have chosen the right size for him.

He started to laboriously pull one of the shirt onto his heavily bandaged upper body, since he was dressed only in a tatty pair of pyjama bottoms, but he failed, if only for the fact that Miss Granger seized it with ease and with one pull wrenched it from him.

"You don't need to wear that, I have several more pieces of casual clothing."

Triumphantly she held up a black tracksuit and in her other hand he spotted a pair of striped pyjamas. "You're not seriously suggesting I wear _that_?" Manley's bushy eyebrows moved upward.

"Of course you will. Because you'll be spending the next couple of days in bed; you need some more rest, otherwise your wounds cannot heal properly, they'll be ripped open again and..."

Testily, Linus interrupted her flood of words. "There's no reason for you to care about any of that. I'm not going to let you tell me when to stay abed and when to get up. Besides, I need to eat and I can only get my hands on some foot _outside_ of my bed."

"It's not necessary for you to get up. _I'll_ bring you food."

Hermione didn't wait around for his answer, which was sure to be a rejection. She bustled out of the room, ignoring his resentful mutter with respect to her patronising attitude. She had decided to help him and she wasn't going to let his rejection keep her from doing exactly that. Swiftly she moved a couple of floors down, where she had discovered the kitchen shortly after arriving here. Of course it was just as neglected as everything in this house, but it worked just fine with respect to keeping the provisions cool. After she had cleaned one of the cupboards, she used it to store different kinds of foodstuffs. She had ascertained, after a short survey of his cupboards, that this impossible man didn't have any provisions apart from a few bottles of liquor and a mouldy loaf of bread. She was glad she brought decent food. Quickly, she arranged a couple of sandwiches and some pieces of fruit on a disposable plate and moved back upstairs.

He had actually stayed in bed, she noticed with satisfaction, even though he was still sitting upright. He gave her a dark look as she re-entered the room and deposited the food in front of him with a flourish. She also saw with a little amusement that he had donned the tracksuit. The ugly man scrutinized his food thoroughly.

"Just start eating already, I didn't poison anything," Hermione had to suppress a grin; she knew that if she showed any levity in the face of his mistrust, all hell would break loose and he'd probably throw the food at her head. He needed to eat though: as she was treating his many wounds, she'd had the opportunity to take in his gaunt and grimy body. She comforted: "If you eat well and rest, you'll be back on your feet all the sooner and then you'll be rid of me."

This must have tipped the balance, for Manley reached for the bread and took a bite with gusto. Despite the fact that he controlled his ugly features expertly and forbid himself to show any emotion, Hermione could see a small, blissful smile. He probably didn't get a properly prepared meal very often. Ardent pity flowed through her at the thought and made her turn her head away; she didn't want him to see her compassion, it would only serve to anger him once again.

Manley enjoyed his food in silence, looking out of the window and appearing to watch the trees that swayed gently in the wind. Only when he had finished the last bite, he turned back to face her.

"Why?"

Hermione shook her head briefly: she didn't understand what he was asking her.

"Why are you still here?" he specified.

"You need help; you were gravely injured. I will return a couple more times, until you are well again," she stated firmly.

"You should have just left me here to die." Resigned, he closed his eyes and sank back onto the pillows; he was tired of keeping up appearances. She just wouldn't disappear and he could bear her worried countenance no longer. He didn't want pity. Least of all from her. She should just leave him be, let him live his god-awful life. It was no use, either way; the five years were almost over.

"You cannot be serious, sir! Did you really expect me to leave you to your own devices, badly injured as you were? After all that has happened?"

She added quietly: "I am to blame for your condition."

"I should have ignored your screams and minded my own business. I didn't follow my own rules, therefore I am responsible for what happened to me. I have gotten my just deserts and I should have died." He shared these insights with eyes closed and face averted. He wanted her to go and leave him alone. Alone with himself, this horrid, loathsome caricature of a man, which he would remain for the rest of his miserable life. Alone with his self-hatred, which seemed to be eating him alive...There was nothing at all likeable about him...nothing whatsoever...! Quite the contrary: nobody would ever even think of feeling anything for him but pity at most. Once again he succumbed to the well-known depression, which he had been afflicted with these four long years.

A small tear made its way down his deeply grooved face. That's all he needed: he was starting to cry in the presence of this girl now! He was a snivelling wimp; it was unbearable. He hated himself! Dumbledore should have killed him right off the bat, rather than subject him to such torture.

With difficulty, he moved, turning his back towards her as well as averting his face.

"Just go. Go and leave me alone," he murmured quietly, but loud enough for her to hear. He had no more strength left, he just wanted to stop thinking, wanted to close his eyes and escape this world forever.

She misunderstood him. Of course he wanted to be alone for a while, have some private time...

"I'll go into the kitchen and maybe clean up a little. I can stay a little while more, before I have to go. If you need anything..." Hermione turned around and wanted to leave the room.

"JUST FUCK OFF! I WANT YOU TO LEAVE MY HOUSE. GO AND NEVER RETURN! GET THE HELL OUT!" he roared furiously from behind her, mobilizing all of the strength left to him.

Hermione cringed in light of these rancorous words: she had never, in her life, met a man so bitter and stubborn, that you had to practically force good luck on him.

Resolutely she turned around and stepped up to the bed. She wouldn't leave just like that. Even when he believed that he deserved nothing more and maybe even rightly so, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life, for leaving a person in need to fend for themselves. He had saved her life and she owed him this at least, no matter if he saw things entirely differently.

He had turned back towards her and she could see the tears in his eyes. Bright as little lakes they glittered. For the moment, however, she ignored his obviously shaken state of mind: she had gotten rather worked up herself because of his unexpected attack. She would give him a piece of her mind once and for all.

"I will not go and leave you alone right now, under no circumstances! Whether you want me to, or not, I am staying, at least until you are recovered, so you better get used to that. You're still weakened by the injuries you sustained and it is foolhardy to get this worked up. You're expending strength you simply don't have at the moment. You're going to have to endure my presence for a while longer, so get over yourself!"

He took a deep breath and she could tell he was about to give her a piece of _his_ mind, good and proper. She didn't want to let it get that far. With a dismissive gesture she nipped his unspoken sentence in the bud and instead bend over, so she could look straight into his eyes, which were now glittering with fury.

"I will now go and take care of the filth in the kitchen: after that I'll change your dressings and _you_ will sleep. I advise you to listen and do as I say, you'll get well all the more quick for it. As soon as you're more or less healthy, I'll leave, but not before. It's up to you, therefore, to determine how much longer you'll have to endure my presence here."

Again, she didn't wait for his reply: under no circumstances would she let herself be dragged into a discussion by him. Abruptly she turned and left the room with her head held high, closing the door behind her with a bang. She hadn't gotten far when she heard a clattering noise: he must have given expression to his anger in the only way left to him, even if it meant destroying some of the few functioning items he could call his own.

She sighed and continued on her way into the depths of the mansion. Sometimes it would have been really practical to still have her wand; if she did, she wouldn't have to clean up the mess the Muggle way.

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	9. To be or not to be

**AN**: I apologize for the long wait between updates: I have been very busy these past couple of weeks with finishing up my studies. Still busy with that, actually, but I could no longer ignore your pleas to continue.

Besides, it makes for some much-needed distraction ;-)

Please enjoy the next chapter and let me know what you think!

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**Beauty and the Beast** by _Mrs Skinner_

Translation by _SnapeSeraphin_

Chapter 8 To be or not to be

He had briefly felt better, when the glass shattered against the door. After the first wave of anger on behalf of her unexpected tenacity had passed however, the agonizing thoughts and the revulsion of having her near him returned full force. What the hell was wrong with him, that he was no longer capable of spreading fear and terror?

He hadn't met the Granger girl very often, but he had always sensed a certain potential for fear in her; an icy look from grey eyes, face distorted with disdain, had done the rest. Alright, so she had still been a child then, inexperienced and easily scared. Now, the look didn't seem to work anymore and unfortunately he couldn't distort his changed face in the same fashion. Sighing, he buried his face in the pillow.

He wanted to be alone. He was unaccustomed nowadays to having people around, much less people afflicted with this damned helper-syndrome like she was.

He recalled once more her more than energetic performance earlier and despite the piercing unease he felt in her presence, he couldn't but admire her spirit and above all her courage. Not many people would have taken it upon themselves to return to the woods after such a harrowing experience and search for their ostensibly injured saviour. She even touched him. Right from the start her gaze lacked the disgust that he encountered so often in the looks of almost everybody he met and who spared only a glance for his deformed appearance. Their horrified looks struck him to the core: he must have been a vain man after all, proud of his good looks. The horrified looks, combined with disparaging remarks had led to him retreating into loneliness. And now there was a young female who was intimidated by neither his appearance, nor his dismissive manner... it was staggering.

His thoughts moved onto the rose, which spend its existence in a remote part of the house, in a normally sun-drenched corner room. He shook his head and pressed his misshapen hands against his temples, as if it would allow him to halt his hopeful thoughts. No, she would never feel more than pity for him. Besides, she was a part of the Potter-trio. If she discovered his true identity, she would turn away from him in the revulsion that his appearance seemed unable to generate. And what was more: the five-year period was all but over: he should bury the tiny spark of hope, just as he had buried all his other hopes and dreams. He was a bastard and didn't deserve anything else. It was a conclusion that had grown in him during the hardships and disappointment of the past years.

Another sigh from the depths of his heart disturbed the silence of the room. In spite of his whirling thoughts – that kept going back to Hermione Granger – he had reached a decision: he would tolerate her presence in his house, be it grudgingly, until he was well again. It's not as if she left him any other choice: she did whatever the hell she wanted to do anyway. But he also vowed that, as soon as he was physically able and capable of looking after himself, he would send her away. In case of her not respecting his wishes in the matter, he wouldn't hesitate to use physical force.

And so it came to pass, that from then on he allowed Hermione to take care of him. She did so admirably: she changed his dressings, very carefully to make sure she was hurting him as little as possible. She actually seemed to like preparing food and bringing it to him. He didn't protest as she started to clean the room from years of neglect, even taking on the filthy windows, so that suddenly he could see the sky from his bed and his lodgings weren't quite so dreary anymore. He assumed she was also cleaning other parts of the house, not in the least because he could sometimes hear all sorts of noises originating from outside his room and because she told him she was trying to revamp the mansion. He submitted to it without comment.

She was often there when he awoke in the mornings and kept him company until his eyes slid closed in fatigue in the evening. He sometimes wondered when she found the time to work or if she didn't have a life of her own, to be wasting almost her entire day with him.

Despite his still dismissive manner, she treated him with care and respect. When he discovered that she, no matter how disdainful and uncooperative his attitude got, never changed hers, he changed his demeanour little by little into something more courteous. It was simply too tiring to remain angry in the long run. The insults and squabbles they participated in were history after mere days and both of them tried their best to sustain their tentative relationship.

They had come to a silent agreement: she was allowed to tend to his wounds, however she never mentioned the fight with the wolves. He, on the other hand, never asked her about her family or other subjects pertaining to her life outside of his house; he supposed she would have liked to tell him more about herself, but then he would also have to reveal more about himself and that was absolutely out of the question. In the beginning, she had told him she was a teacher, living alone and that she didn't have a lot of friends. He was surprised that she, as one of the heroes of the war, hadn't pursued a promising career, but instead lived here, far away in the Muggle world. She didn't seem to stay in touch with Potter and company and, what surprised him most, she never used magic. He had searched through her backpack, which she usually left in his room when she went to the kitchen and there was nothing there, no wand, nothing at all magical in origin. She used the stove for cooking, heating it with firewood instead of just preparing his food by magical means. It gave him something to think about, but the solution to this little riddle wasn't so easy to come by and it wasn't as if he could ask her.

After a couple of days, Malfoy's wounds had started to heal and with that a certain helplessness took control of him. He wanted to get up, more specifically he wanted to go to the room with the rose and check if everything was alright. He had a suspicion that, seeing that the allotted time-period was rapidly elapsing, she wouldn't make a pretty picture. Surely she must have started to wilt by now...

Not knowing was worse, though, so he tried to get out of bed a walk a little way. After a couple of failed attempts, he postponed the hated, fateful trip to a later time.

Hermione of course noticed the former wizard's distress and decided to help him battle his apparent boredom. She had made regular tours of the house, during which she had also found the tower room where, unknown to her, Lucius kept his rose. On discovering that the door was locked, she had forgotten all about it. More importantly, she had found a sort of library: she had stood in the enormous room with her mouth hanging open in obvious amazement, as she took in the walls covered in bookshelves, filled with antique books. Time and the omnipresent dust had ensured that some of the books that she pulled from the shelves crumbled to dust in her hands. Others had become damp enough for the pages to stick together, or for the print to become completely illegible because of the water stains. She had kept on looking however and in the end had stubbornly unearthed a row of books which might actually still be read after she had cleaned off the dirt and grime that had been collecting on them for years. She was pleased to see that there was a substantial collection of Shakespearian publications. Being completely enamoured with the bard's work, she decided to read a little to the unusual man who was brooding away in his bed upstairs.

One very dismal afternoon, when it rained without pause and Hermione had decided to wait a little while longer, so as not to arrive home completely soaked, the time was ripe. Holding a book in one hand, she appeared at Lucius' bedside. The former wizard had turned his head towards the window and was morosely watching the raindrops as they spattered against the window pane and ran down the glass in little streams.

"Are you counting raindrops, or are you spending your time brooding again?" Hermione asked as she sat down in her usual spot: the chair next to Lucius' bed, where she sat as she watched him eat. With concern she considered the sunken cheeks in his pale and decidedly bleak-looking face. Despite the fact that he was doing better, he was far from being healthy.

He didn't look quite so intimidating or hideous anymore, she suddenly realised. After she had had to look at him and touch him repeatedly these past couple of days, her disgust caused by his misshapen body and hideous face had fallen by the wayside. She had touched his skin and it felt warm and alive. She didn't find his spidery, bony fingers with the long nails so repulsive anymore either. Regularly when she suspected he was in pain – the stubborn man not uttering a word about it of course – she took one of his hands in hers she and it was also warm, a little rough maybe, but not unpleasantly so. When they had a conversation, which didn't happen very often, his voice fascinated her. He didn't tell her anything about himself, what he did before, how he ended up here, whether or not he had family...nothing at all. They only exchanged meaningless trivialities. Likewise, he never inquired after her own life – not that she would have had anything noteworthy to report; it just continued on without much meaning, the only thing that had changed was that Michael was paying her even more attention than he already had. She had to tell him no all the time.

He was curious what occupied her time so much that she couldn't even afford to go and have a coffee with him. Despite that fact that she had liked him at first and he undoubtedly was pleasant to look at with his well-trained body, he was starting to become difficult and pushy. She didn't want to tell him what it was that caused her to leave as soon as her lessons were done, despite the distinct impression that he wouldn't allow her to evade him indefinitely. Once or twice she even thought that he might be following her...which was of course nonsense. Why would an attractive guy like that follow her around when he could get all the females he wanted? Females who, in contrast to her, would be overjoyed with him paying attention to them?

She firmly put the blonde sports teacher from her mind and concentrated on the puzzle that was Linus Manley. Manley, who had a deep, pleasant voice that had elicited many a shiver to run down her spine and whose shining, ice-grey eyes captivated her time and again. She had actually caught herself on the verge of drowning in their swirling grey depths. Like before, he looked absolutely revolting, what with all the bandages, covered in healing, pink scars and the messy, greasy gray hair, but she had learned to look beyond the surface and to see the man beneath all that; a man who could be gracious and gentlemanly if he so chose. A man who was undoubtedly intelligent and with whom one could have quite the interesting discussion if he felt like it. She had mentioned some general subjects a couple of times and had noticed that he felt right at home in the world of politics. It was apparent he enjoyed discussing the relations between power, politics and money.

In the evening, after she went home and lay in her bed, thinking, unable to fall asleep as terrible, recurring images plagued her, she saw this man, swinging his bat, pulling his knife, fighting like a madman to keep her from harm. She could still hear his battle cry, coming from the depths of his soul...and she wondered, not for the first time, what those would look like...the depths of his soul. She couldn't help but wanting to know more about him, to look inside the man and not be deterred by his ugly appearance.

Even now, a warm feeling settled inside her heart when she was in his presence. And it wasn't just pity either: she realised she was genuinely fascinated by this complicated, mysterious male.

Lucius had no idea of the thoughts going through his current nurse's head, as he had indeed been brooding rather extensively before she interrupted his thoughts. Now, being addressed by Hermione, he turned his head and gave her a short, penetrating look.

"Both," he admitted in response to her question. She smiled warmly at him and his stomach contracted painfully. She wasn't smiling at him, at Lucius Malfoy; her compassion was for a poor, misshapen man who had suffered from bad luck. The urge to send her away resurfaced. He knew he would inevitably give himself away one of these days, would be unable to maintain the mask he was wearing. Already, her influence on him was making itself known and already he detested the feelings she might awaken inside of him. He had opened his mouth to tell her to leave, but closed it again without uttering a word. At the moment, her company was soothing and almost tolerable.

"I would like to distract you from your melancholy thoughts, if I may?"

He frowned, but remained silent. She opened the book she was carrying and started to read from it.

"What bloody man is that?

He can report, as seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

the newest state."

Malfoy sighed deeply, making Hermione halt her reading and give him a questioning glance.

"Macbeth? Of all the books in the bloody library you chose Shakespeare?"

"Yes, why not? You don't like Shakespeare? Or is it Macbeth in particular that doesn't appeal to you? I could find something else to read, but there is an incredible collection of Shakespeare's works in this house. I daresay it is all but complete.... I like Shakespeare. A little distraction won't hurt you. I'd like to continue reading, if you permit?"

He shook his head in the face of this torrent of speech; for as long as she had been with him, he had never heard her say so much in one go. Impassively, he decided it was probably easiest to simply allow her to continue. After all, he liked Shakespeare too.

So he, reached behind him for his pillow and arranged it so that he was more comfortable. "Alright then, if it means so much to you.... I suppose I should be grateful you didn't pick Romeo and Juliet...."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but decided to just ignore that last remark: she focused on the text before her.

And so she read and read, until she got tired: the letters were dancing in front of her eyes and her voice was growing hoarse. She had to stop for a moment, to clear her throat and drink some of water if nothing else, as Lucius took the book from her lap. He took a moment to find the spot where she was forced to stop and continued the tale in a powerful voice.

"Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

The cry is still 'They come:' our castle's strength

Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie

Til famine and the ague eat them up."

Now, it was Hermione's turn to close her eyes and savour the fascinating timbre of Manley's voice as he read. From that day onward, it became their ritual that after Hermione had changed his bandages and prepared his food, she sat down next to him and read.

Contrary to expectations, Lucius enjoyed spending his time thusly, as it kept him from brooding and getting mired in melancholy. And often, when Hermione grew tired, he continued reading in her stead.


End file.
